


Strings

by translucentCrucible



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Holding Hands, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24228268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/translucentCrucible/pseuds/translucentCrucible
Summary: You’re standing far from the bottom of that same hill—but far from the top, as well—watching him. You wonder if he knows you’re there.You don’t want to startle him if he hasn’t noticed. Tentatively, you take another step towards him. “Ψiioniic,” you say.
Relationships: The Psiioniic | The Helmsman/The Signless | The Sufferer
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	Strings

**Author's Note:**

> The title and this fic was inspired by the MS MR song "Strings".

The Ψiioniic sits alone. He stares out into the near-starless night from the peak of a grassy, sloping hill. The sky is not obscured by clouds; instead, the city and surrounding suburbs pollute the air with cloying, scintillating light—but that isn’t what matters. The Ψiioniic sits alone, hunched over, hands clutching at the sides of his gold bomber jacket.

You’re standing far from the bottom of that same hill—but far from the top, as well—watching him. You wonder if he knows you’re there.

You don’t want to startle him if he hasn’t noticed. Tentatively, you take another step towards him. “Ψiioniic,” you say.

He bows his head, still turned away. You open your mouth to call to him, louder this time, when you notice his body shake with a quiet sob.

You stop a meter or so behind him. “Ψiioniic?” you ask softly.

He turns his head; you see glistening golden tears on his cheeks and down his chin, reflecting the soft bicolor glow from his eyes. “What.”

You don’t stare. “What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

“It’s nothing,” he replies. It’s so blatantly a lie, but you won’t push the subject.

You gesture to the general space to his left. “May I sit next to you?”

He glances there reflexively. He nods.

So you sit beside him, legs criss-crossed and arms resting on your legs. Your striped arm warmers find a little friction between its fabric and your denim-clad knees.

Slowly, you risk a tentative look at his face. He is staring ahead again; this time, though, the distant lights of rural hives catch his eye. You wonder who lives there and what they’re like. They could be just a few sweeps old, with their lusus; they could be your age or older, with jobs and relationships and stories to tell that you will never hear.

The Ψiioniic focuses on the scene before him, unaware of your thoughts. He looks on, hands still gripping the plasticy fabric of his jacket for lack of a better place. Another wave of tears washes down his cheeks; they run like rivers before finally dripping to the cool ground.

He breathes in shakily. “I’m—”

Silent again, he lowers his gaze to his lap.

“It’s okay,” you reassure him. “You don’t have to say anything.”

He blinks away the translucent gold tears that cling to his long jet-black eyelashes. “I want to.”

You nod.

He stays silent for awhile. You watch him, examining every inch of his pretty face, from his thick eyebrows to his downturned nose. His dark chapped lips shine ever-so-subtly. Exhaustion weighs heavily on his delicate eyelids; you would ask how he slept, but you already know the answer. Asking would only make him feel ashamed, and shame is the last thing you want someone you care so deeply for to feel.

“Words are—” He sniffles, collects himself, and tries again. “Words are so fucking hard sometimes.”

You acknowledge him with a soft hum.

“Life used to suck so much shit,” he continues. “I want to puke every time I think about it. So I’m happy.”

“Yeah?” you say.

“Grateful, I guess,” he amends. “Whatever.” He snorts and wipes his face on his sleeve. “At least these sleeves are gold. This is stupid—me, I mean. Crying... because I’m happy?”

“I think it’s normal,” you suggest. You’ve done so a few times, anyway.

“It’s still not—” He grimaces, searching for the right word. “I’m not proud of it.”

You eye the distance between you and him. “Yeah.”

His eyes find yours. “That’s bad, right?”

“No,” you say. It’s a half-truth; you wish he didn’t reject his feelings, but if it’s how he interprets them now, he will, and you can’t stop it—just try to understand instead.

He shrugs.

You know it took courage to leave behind an awful, but predictable life in servitude in favor of an uncertain, yet kinder one. You wish you could understand what he feels; you were free your entire life—even if you have been hunted since the moment you opened your eyes on Alternia. You sigh. He deserved better than he got. He deserves better now, too. You all do.

“Can I hold your hand?” the Ψiioniic asks abruptly.

You blink a couple times. “What—”

“It’s nothing,” he mutters. “Sorry; I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s okay!” you interrupt.

He laughs nervously. “Signless, you’re such a pale slut.”

You pack that comment away for later. “I’m sure you think so.” You offer him the hand that was resting on your knee previously.

He reaches out slowly, searching your demeanor for ulterior motives and finding none. His warm hand ghosts over yours, humming faintly with the façade of a psionic aura, feather-light and overly cautious. A second later, he slips his fingers between and around yours. He grins.

“This is okay?” he asks.

“This is okay,” you say.

His grin fades to a warm smile. “’S nice.”

He leans against you and breathes a sigh of relief. He sniffles again. “Nose’s stuffed.”

You rest your head on his shoulder.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Anytime.”

**Author's Note:**

> almost nine months later, i appear with another fanfic...
> 
> anyhow, i would like to thank the two friends who beta-read this!! 💖
> 
> and thank you, too, for tuning in!!!
> 
> you can find me on twitter as vegetables_3, if you want!


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